Vikings Don't Cry
by PadawanGirl
Summary: "'Gobber will keep you safe until I return,' he promised. Hiccup's lip quivered even more and tears streamed down his face. Stoick brushed them aside with meaty fingers. 'Vikings don't cry,' he reminded him, plucking up the toddler and seating him on Gobber's work bench. 'I'll be back for you.'"


**A little idea that popped into my head yesterday. I honestly don't remember how or why I thought of this. *laugh* It's short, I know. But I hope it's enjoyable anyway. :)**

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Stoick the Vast tried bouncing the wee baby in his arms, swaying back and forth from his spot in front of the roaring fire. A snowstorm raged on outside, wind howling through the sides of the house. He tried patted the baby's back. Singing songs he'd heard Gobber hum while working in the forge. Begging and pleading. Anything to comfort the wailing Hiccup. Valka had always had the magic touch, as all mother's do. but she was gone now, stolen away from them by those monsters. And Stoick was at a loss how to quiet his tiny son.

"There, there, Hiccup," he gruffed in his version of a baby-talk voice. "None of that now."

Brilliant green eyes squinted up at him from a scrunched red face, shining with tears.

"Vikings don't cry, Hiccup," whispered Stock. He stroked a large hand over the thatch of auburn hair atop the infants head as Hiccup's wails slowly subsided to shuddering breaths.

...

Stoick pushed the toddering Hiccup into Gobber's smithy. The chaotic sounds of roaring dragons, screaming Vikings, and crackling fires echoed in the small space.

The three year old glanced up at him with wide green eyes. "Daddy?"

"Stay here with Gobber, son," said Stoick. "Your father has to go protect the village."

"You can help hand me tools," added Gobber, trying to distract Hiccup.

The chief raised his sword, making for the door.

"Daddy, no!" The toddler rushed after him, tightly gripping his pant leg. "Please, don't go!"

Stoick's heart ached at the terror in his voice, but he squared his shoulders, dropping to kneel in front of his son. Hiccup stared at him, lower lip trembling and eyes shimmering.

"It is the chief's duty to protect his people, son," explained Stock. "One day you will understand." He glanced up at the blacksmith. "Gobber will keep you safe until I return," he promised.

Hiccup's lip quivered even more and tears streamed down his face.

Stoick brushed them aside with meaty fingers. "Vikings don't cry," he reminded him, plucking up the toddler and seating him on Gobber's work bench. "I'll be back for you."

...

Stoick crouched to his knees, pulling his crying son into a sitting position. The seven year old, too excitedly talking about trolls, had tripped over his own feet and tumbled onto the rocky path they traveled.

"Where does it hurt?" asked Stoick.

Hiccup pointed to his right knee, still sobbing.

The great chief carefully rolled up the boy's trouser leg. The pale, freckled skin of his knee was scraped raw, but not bleeding badly.

"There now," he assured, "it's not so bad. We Vikings don't cry over skinned knees and scraped elbows."

Hiccup wiped his face on his shirt sleeve as Stoick reached into his tan satchel and pulled out a strip of cloth. Birds sang gently around them in the crisp morning air, calming the boy's startled nerves. His green eyes almost glowed in the bright morning light as he watched Stoick quickly bandage up his knee, patting him on the thigh.

"All better." He stood and pulled Hiccup to his feet.

The boy shook his pant leg back down as his father picked up their fishing poles.

"Shall we?" asked Stoick, motioning down the path again.

Hiccup nodded, resuming his tale where he'd left off.

...

Stoick gingerly navigated the narrow stairs to his son's room. "Hiccup?"

The only response he received was a faint sniffle.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim glow casted off the fire below.

The twelve year old sat in the center of his bed, bony knees drawn up to his thin chest. His arms hugged his knees tightly, silent tears slowly running down his face. His troubled green eyes rose to meet Stoick and Hiccup lifted a hand to furiously swipe at his tears. "I know, I know, Viking's don't cry," he muttered with another sniffle.

Stoick lowered himself onto the bed beside him, the planks groaning under his weight. "What happened."

Hiccup plucked at a loose thread on his trousers. "They all hate me," he whispered.

"Who?"

"The other kids."

"They don't hate you," said Stoick, trying for a reassuring tone.

"Dad, they push me in the snowbanks when I walk past and call me Hiccup the Useless."

Stoick sighed. "They just don't know you, Hiccup. You're always off on your own, exploring and… doodling. Maybe you should try spending time with them."

"I do try!" cried Hiccup exasperatedly. "I try to join them in their games of Warriors and Dragons and they just gang up on me. I try to sit with them in the Great Hall and they move to another table. They hate me! How am I supposed to be the chief of a bunch of people who hate me?" Hiccup finished sadly.

Hiccup's narrow shoulder was swallowed up by Stoick's massive palm. "You will be a great chief one day, Hiccup. You just need to…" Stoick gestured with his other hand, searching for the right words.

"Be a Viking?" offered Hiccup, and Stoick missed the despair seeping into his voice.

"Exactly!" Stoick clapped him on the back and stood. He noticed a few tears slipping down Hiccup's face again. "First step, Vikings don't cry. Now come downstairs, I'll show you how a chief plans a raid of the dragons' nest."

...

Stoick stumbled over the ashy beach, squinting through the gray haze drifting in the air. "Hiccup? Hiccup! Son!" He froze as he spotted the dark shadow of the Night Fury. "Hiccup," he whispered.

He raced forward, slipping on the soot slick rocks, his sole focus the motionless dragon. He stuttered to a halt as he drew near enough to see the empty saddle on the beast's back, the leather puckered and broken from the heat of the blast. His eyes trailed down the length of its body as the Night Fury rolled to his side with a groan. The rigging across its tail was twisted at an awkward angle, pulling his tail to the side.

There was no trace of Hiccup.

Stoick let out a gasping sigh and collapsed to his knees. "Oh, son. I did this."

He had failed. Failed Valka. Failed the tribe.

Failed Hiccup.

Hot tears pricked as his eyes, but he choked them back.

_Vikings don't cry_, his father had always told him.

The dragon moaned again and Stoick glance up as it slowly blinked open brilliant green eyes, so like his son's.

Eyes he would never again see.

The dragon trilled at him, low in his throat, like he was asking a question.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," breathed Stoick, voice choking with emotion. He wasn't sure whether he was apologizing to the Night Fury or Hiccup.

The dragon's eyes widened as it regarded him and then he blinked, glancing under his wings as he slowly unwrapped them to reveal-

"Hiccup!" Stoick raced forward, pulling the teen into his arms. He turned his worryingly pale face, freckles standing out starkly amidst the smudges of ash, towards him and ran a large hand over his mop of auburn hair.

Those bright green eyes didn't open.

Frantically, Stoick tossed his helmet aside, pressing his ear to Hiccup's thin chest.

Within, his son's heart beat strongly.

Stoick gasped with relief. "He's alive!" he cried, hugging Hiccup's frail body close, still listening to the steady pounding of his heart. "You brought him back alive!" he lowered Hiccup slightly to gaze at his face in wonder as around them the Hooligan tribe cheered.

Stoick reached out, gently laying a hand on the great beast's scaly cheek. "Thank you, for saving my son."

The dragon relaxed against the ground, knowing he had done well.

Stoick only half-heard Gobber say something, staring at the mangled remains of Hiccup's left leg, which ended much more abruptly than it should. Stoick stared back down at the teen, for a brief second seeing a flash of a wee babe cradled in his arms and he was overcome with emotion. His son, his heir, his future, his Hiccup. He hugged him closer and cried.

Tears of loss for his wife. Tears of grief for his son's missed childhood. Tears of relief for a second chance.

Vikings didn't cry.

But then again, Vikings didn't ride dragons.

Maybe it was time for change.

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**Thank you for reading. :) Let me know what you think.**

**xoxo**


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